


Unravel

by Ulfrsmal



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Book Geralt, Buff Jaskier | Dandelion, Bum Bow, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Lingerie, Loss of Control, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Praise, Series Jaskier, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Undressing, self-indulgent work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24491812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: The day had started so well - and then Jaskier had to turn around, wearing a lacy chemise underneath an unlaced doublet. Geralt's control threatens with leaving him even quicker when he realises that there is also a little bow at the back of Jaskier's trousers, tempting him, almost like this lithe bard wrapped himself up like a present for a certain Witcher...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 310





	1. The Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier tempts Geralt with that unlaced doublet and that little bow at the back of his trousers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in my free time at work, not edited yet proofread, because my phone cannot stop auto-correcting Geralt to Great, which is something, I guess…

The doublet didn’t lace all the way up, Geralt noted with just the tiniest hitch of his breath. This had been shaping up to be another usual day, full of what Jaskier insisted on lovingly, or maybe spitefully, calling “witchering”. The bard had complained, loud and clear, as he always did, while getting dressed. The only thing detail that betrayed that this was no ordinary day was that he’d turned around, away from Geralt’s gaze, before sliding the chemise over his head and lacing the doublet he wore over it.

And it didn’t even lace all the way up.

Geralt felt almost feverish when Jaskier turned around, gesturing as wildly as he always did when telling a particularly compelling story – and promptly trailed off when he noticed the lack of reaction from his Witcher. Or, more accurately, the overabundance of reactions.

Geralt’s pupils, ever vertical and thin, were now blown out of proportion, much more rounded than Jaskier had ever seen them before. He didn’t possess the same acute senses that his Witcher had, but Jaskier could still detect the first stages of thinly-veiled interest. It came from Geralt in thick waves, heavy like that gaze – more molten lava than sweet honey, though delicious to feel on naked skin all the same.

Jaskier did not dare speak, too mindful of how easy it was to startle this God of a man with something as simple as praise or touch – but he _did_ lick at his own lower lip, his heartbeat picking up when he saw Geralt tracing his tongue’s motion with that molten gaze.

Tentatively, faking an easy confidence that never came to him easily when alone with his Witcher, Jaskier took a tiny step towards Geralt. At the same time, he opened his arms at either side of his body, pulling at the half-laced doublet to expose a sliver more of the chemise underneath it.

“Why unlaced?” Geralt asked in that deep, low voice that drove many a person mad with desire. Jaskier was proud to not count himself as an exception to that, although he had a certain renown for being one-of-a-kind himself.

“Why not?” Jaskier replied, keeping his tone light but his voice deep. His tenor quality was no match for Geralt’s baritone, maybe even bass; but Jaskier liked the sound of his own voice almost as much as he liked that of his Witcher. “It will be hot today, and you always complain I don’t dress for the weather…”

“Being half naked is not what I meant.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at that indignant tone. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought his Witcher inexperienced and easily flustered – the latter was true, yes, but Geralt had basically the same experience in the bedroom as Jaskier had, or even more. Jaskier had never bedded a sorceress, after all.

“I’m _not_ half naked, my dear Witcher!” Jaskier finally replied in an indignant tone of his own, raising both hands to grab at his own doublet’s lapels almost self-consciously. Almost. “I’ll have you know I’m wearing a chemise underneath, which you can easily see if you direct that gorgeous gaze _here_ …”

Somehow, Geralt obeyed him.

This time, it was Jaskier’s breath hitching in his throat – his Witcher seemed ravenous, wracked by a barely-contained impulse that manifested itself in the tiny step that he took towards Jaskier. His hands trembled as they covered Jaskier’s, still at the lapels of his doublet.

“Why…?” Geralt started, yet trailed off. Jaskier let him regain his bearings, blushed when he noticed how intently Geralt was staring at whatever little skin and hair he could spy at from in between the half-laced doublet and chemise. “Why do you tease me so…?”

“Tease? Entice, maybe. Tempt, perhaps. “Tease” is too soft a verb, my love, don’t you think?”

All the answer Jaskier received was a searing kiss upon his mouth and a pair of hands driving his own away from his clothes. Jaskier’s head reeled as he kissed his dear Witcher back, faintly feeling how desperately he was being clawed at. A moan escaped Jaskier’s opened mouth when Geralt bent his head to suck a mark into his neck, always unabashed and free of all guilt for marking his bard. Jaskier knew he couldn’t complain, though; he loved to exhibit his Witcher’s claim all over his neck, his chest, his thighs. Geralt had even bitten into the soft flesh of his ass, that one time when he’d mixed his alcohols until he was as drunk as a Witcher could get. But never before had Geralt _devoured_ him like this, even though this was far from the first time that Jaskier wore half-laced clothes.

“Geralt…” He half moaned, half called. Jaskier tried to push his Witcher away for long enough to seat himself, or to push his own back against something solid, because he could already feel his knees about to buck – yet the Witcher’s hold was much too strong. “Geralt, please… I’ll fall…”

“Into my arms, maybe.” The Witcher replied, his words as thick as Jaskier’s scent felt like to his overexcited senses. “You’re not leaving me today, my songbird.”

“I don’t want to…” Jaskier bit his lower lip to drown another moan. Geralt forced him to let his voice fly free by kissing him again, taking over the task of biting softly into Jaskier's lips. “Mmmm… _Geralt…”_

Jaskier allowed himself to get lost in the desperate heat emanating from his Witcher’s body, kissed him with an ardent fervour that was reserved for this man, and this man only. Geralt met his needs one by one, giving in to his demands – sweet, the bard’s swirling head mused, but also so very pushy and insistent. He knows I want him too.

Lack of air affected Jaskier before it did Geralt, because not even a trained singer’s lungs can compete against a full-fledged Witcher’s, and drove him to part from Geralt’s mouth. Panting, Jaskier realised that his doublet was now fully undone, exposing the loose chemise beneath. Geralt held him by the waist, gentle fingers tangling themselves into the many folds created by his own touch, which crumpled the fabric. Jaskier could feel his warmth even through the cloth – desperate, almost feverishly hot, as if this was the only chance he had at having Jaskier undressed in his arms.

Which was ridiculous, really, because Jaskier had fallen asleep fully shirtless by his side just the night before. Geralt had not been so keen on touching him then… or had he touched his fair share of naked skin after Jaskier fell asleep…?

The mere thought of that possibility made Jaskier’s head spin pleasantly.

“You seem to want me undressed…” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt’s lips, his hands going up to the Witcher’s shoulders. It was better to have some sort of hold on him; especially when Geralt looked like he was planning on lifting his lithe bard any moment soon. “Geralt, you can always ask to undress me… I’d let you. Every night if you’d like.”

Geralt kissed his jawline, much sweeter than anybody would believe him capable of at first glance. It felt like his sweet, nonverbal way of expressing gratitude for Jaskier’s words. The bard smiled, blue eyes falling closed as he searched for his Witcher’s mouth again.

Long and lingering as their kiss was, it soon became too much to bear for Jaskier, who saw himself rendered to a panting, moaning mess long before his Witcher had even started to breathe heavily. Geralt’s hands ran all over his chest and stomach, greedily tracing the ridges of Jaskier’s ribs and hooking around his waist – and going so far as to dip his fingertips into Jaskier’s trousers. The bard, far from being shied by it, pushed back against those exploring hands as best as he could when being held so firmly in place at the same time.

Geralt rumbled a growl from the very depths of his throat, roughly bringing Jaskier’s hips flush against his own. Their height was similar enough that their crotches touched, the contact just as heated as their kisses had been. Jaskier huffed a sound that wanted to be a laugh, despite him being so utterly breathless already.

Geralt allowed him just the tiniest moment of respite before his hands moved to the highest edge of Jaskier’s trousers – and then his Witcher _growled_ , low and lingering and threatening.

“A _bow_? Really? Haven't you found a belt yet, or did you forget it at our last inn?”

Jaskier's blood sizzled with the obscene amounts of pleasure thrumming within his whole body. The shiver that racked him was short but intense – just like how his Witcher kept his statements most of the time. Geralt being so unexpectedly vocal still had not ceased to send more chilling heat spiralling down Jaskier’s spine.

“A belt might be more practical, but I’m afraid that would leave me with nothing to do with the excess lace on this particular pair…”

“So you just wrap yourself up like a fucking present?” Geralt bit at the narrow space in between Jaskier’s earlobe and neck, leaving behind a pretty red mark. His bard’s pulse accelerated underneath his tongue when he licked over the reddened spot, wanting to soothe the undoubtedly distracting sensation. “Like you want to give yourself to me? Jaskier, I know you're not stupid, I _know_ you know exactly what a bad idea that is…”

“Why? Because you’ll take and take and _take_?" Jaskier grabbed his Witcher by the hair. Geralt growled, but let him put enough distance in between them to look at each other in the eye. “I know you’re not stupid either, my darling Wolf. I know that you desire me just as much as I desire you. Now go on, undress me if you wish, unravel your present and enjoy it…”

For a moment, Geralt seemed hell-bent on doing just that – he even took one end of the little bow in between two calloused fingertips, ready to pull it loose – and then –

“If I do that, my dear bardling, we’ll never arrive on time for my next contract. And I may be wrong, but I think you’d rather I enjoyed you laid down on a proper bed, and not bent over a thick tree-root.”

Jaskier immediately opened his mouth to protest the very notion; any place was the best place if it meant having those roughened, experienced hands roaming free all over his body. He wanted, no, _needed_ , Geralt to know that.

“So let us go. Please. I’ll treat you better as soon as I’m able to do so. Promised.”

Jaskier knew himself well enough to admit to himself that those gentle words, and the even gentler reverence with which Geralt was lacing his doublet up again, were welcomed. Not really needed, because Jaskier had always known his Witcher was foreign to the soothing world of tender ministrations, but welcomed.

“Very well…” Jaskier sighed, not even bothering to hide his disagreement. At the same time, he let himself be pushed and pulled in all directions, let his Witcher lace the doublet as far up as Jaskier had laced it before turning to face Geralt. “Have it your way, you big, adorable brute of a man.”

Geralt's knowing smirk scorched his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I may have a second chapter to add to this if work is slow enough this week too – a second chapter in which Geralt finally gets to enjoy this new present he has just discovered~


	2. The Unravelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once night falls around them, Geralt gets to undress Jaskier...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I do have a second chapter! And it’s longer than the first! Yay or nay?

Night found them holed up in the local inn, although to name this building as such would be quite merciful. Jaskier had finished his last song not even ten minutes ago; and it left him with a heavier purse than he had this morning and some residual adrenaline thrumming in his veins. Geralt senses him coming and doesn’t even bother opening their room’s door for him, already knowing Jaskier will just barge in, beaming like the sunray he truly is.

“Oh, Geralt!” Jaskier started immediately after entering their shared room. It was decidedly tiny, because it served more as a storage room for this establishment than as a true guest room, but it would do. A roof was a roof; and even more so with such a heavy storm outside. “The crowd is tiny, but they _love_ me!”

“Everybody loves you.” Geralt replied before thinking his words through before speaking. When he realised what he’d said, fear gripped him from inside his ribcage – _had he just admitted he–?_

“Oh, you flatter me.” Jaskier let himself fall onto the improvised bed – a series of hard, full sacks leant side-by-side and covered by a thin blanket. “ _OOF!_ Damnit, this is _awful!_ ”

“You won’t sleep against it.” Geralt mumbled, awkward and distracted.

Distracted, because Jaskier has just rolled around as if to test the “bed”. His bard is now lying face-down, his weight supported by his elbows and belly. The still-unlaced doublet rides up, exposing the upper part of his trousers – and that fucking, ridiculously _tiny_ bow that Geralt refused to undo earlier that day. It feels like a downright _tease_ to the Witcher’s oversensitive senses.

Adrenaline and excitement taste the same way when they come from his bard, he has learnt the hard way. It is impossible to know when he’s merely riding on the high of performing live, and when he’s almost _begging_ for someone to fuck him properly. And his scent now carries the sweet notes of such excitement. It entices Geralt’s senses, even though he already knows it’s only adrenaline this time.

“What do you mean, I won’t sleep against it? Are you perchance entertaining the notion of kick– _ooohh fuck_ …”

Geralt holds his bard down by the hips, bites at one end of the bow as if to test it. He’s not the most skilled lover in this regard, since the sorceresses he tends to bed entice him by undressing themselves before him (Geralt knows himself well enough to know women are more than welcome to take control over him). But when he takes control instead, it’s because he’s bedding a man – and none of his fellow Witchers wear this type of intricate clothing, so he doesn’t need to unlace anything. Much less with his teeth of all things.

But something about Jaskier just drives Geralt absolutely _wild_ with hunger, with desire, with the need to treat him properly and make sure he never leaves him.

“Geralt…?” Jaskier sounds unsure. Geralt cannot blame him; not when he himself doesn’t know what he’s doing either, or why exactly he’s doing it.

“Can I?” Geralt asks, lips brushing the delicate lace. Jaskier trembles beneath his mouth, between his arms. “Can I undress you for bed?”

A beat spent in silence.

Geralt would try to backtrack – but Jaskier’s scent has not changed. The Witcher knows what that means. He’s seen it before, when Jaskier was excited after a performance and a young little thing tried to flirt with him. It had been a rather poor attempt, even by tiny-town standards, and Geralt had been sure that Jaskier would refuse him on principle. But his bard had surprised him, and the youngster, by agreeing to the lewd proposition. Geralt had watched them go upstairs together, only then realising that Jaskier’s scent had still been sweet and excited all throughout the awful flirting.

In a way, having a Witcher paw desperately at his clothes to try and undress him from the waist down cannot be too different from that awkward, awful flirting. Geralt is quite sure that his actions now are even _worse_ than what the youngster had done. If Jaskier refused him now, Geralt would understand it completely. Even though the sweet, excited scent has not waned.

“… you would?” Jaskier manages to ask while Geralt slides a hand around his lithe body, pulling the thin chemise free from his trousers. That allows him to have all the leverage he needed to open a greedy hand over Jaskier’s quivering stomach. “Oh, fuck, _Geralt_ … you really would, wouldn’t you…”

His Witcher’s only answer is to press Jaskier’s body to his own mouth again.

Jaskier whines something low and needy and _raw_ , fights to open his thighs – and mewls when he finds he cannot do so. Geralt holds him in place, gently presses him more against his own body than to the improvised bed below. He seems quite conscious of how rough and unpleasant the “bed” is. Jaskier huffs a breathless laugh.

“Fine, _fine_ , you absolute devil. Undress me if you wish. And explain to me where I’m supposed to sleep, if not on these rough sacks.”

“On me.” Geralt replies, moving upwards to slide his hands over Jaskier’s torso – surprisingly, he roams _over_ the doublet, and not _under_ it like Jaskier had been expecting. His fingertips find the first button that is done at the same time in which his mouth reaches the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Just lay your head on my shoulder and your full weight on me. You know I can take it. I can take _you_.”

The double meaning makes Jaskier’s head spin.

Geralt places a series of tiny, open-mouthed kisses at his nape. His fingers undo the doublet’s buttons one by one, gentle, unhurrying. Jaskier trembles, sighs onto his own arms – the sound lingers in Geralt’s ears, prompts him to sit back so he can take his bard up with him. Jaskier ends up sitting on the “bed”, his Witcher directly behind him. He doesn’t protest when Geralt slides the doublet down his shoulders as gently as he can, always so mindful of the forced posture he’s in. Jaskier is about to point it out when Geralt moves, repositioning himself to make things easier for the bard.

Geralt places the doublet down onto the spare blanket that the building’s owner had given them as a bedcover for the night. It’s much rougher than Jaskier’s clothes, spun from simple wool instead of whatever fancy fabric Jaskier preferred to wear today. It had taken Geralt one single glance at the blanket to know he wouldn’t use it at all. He’d rather sleep in full armour and in the stable with Roach.

But that would mean not having Jaskier by his side. And _that_ is unacceptable.

“Does that shirt have a bow too?” Geralt knows his voice sounds rough and almost unpractised. He doesn’t care. If Jaskier doesn’t protest him using his rough voice, he will keep on speaking up.

“This is _not_ a shirt!” Jaskier replies, turning around with an indignant puff of air. “This is a _chemise!_ ”

Geralt allows himself to smile a secret little thing – it’s merely a tug at the corner of his lips, not a true smile by any human standards. Still, he knows Jaskier will know it for what it truly is. His bard just _knows_ him like that.

Besides, it’s not like Geralt doesn’t know the difference between a chemise and a shirt – slight and confusing as it is for most common-folk – because Lambert’s penchant for fancy clothing can rival Jaskier’s own. Geralt knows Eskel must already be as bored of Lambert’s fashionable tirades as Geralt himself is.

“Either way, it _does_ have a bow.” He teases his bard by pointing to the centre of his chest. There, at the low-riding collar, rests a new bow – though much looser than the one at the back of his trousers. “I should’ve known.”

“What are you insinuating?” Jaskier huffs, turning a delicious shade of bright red.

Truth be told, Geralt had not been insinuating anything. But now…

… now that he can see Jaskier’s fleeting glances at his bag, which he’d refused to leave with Roach under the fact that his precious lute is in it too…

Damn. Geralt cannot help but wonder just what the hell is Jaskier hiding there.

“Only that you look damn _great_ in lace.” He replies instead. Dark pleasure twists down his spine when Jaskier’s blush intensifies. It contrasts so beautifully with those blue eyes of his. “If you want me to stop, though–”

“ _Don’t_.” Jaskier stares at his face. “Don’t you _dare_ , Geralt, don’t you _dare_ deny me th–!”

Something dark and warm inside Geralt’s lower belly forces him to lunge forward to capture Jaskier’s mouth with his own, swallowing the last notes of his protest. Jaskier’s voice dissolves into a thin moan, because he’s loud in bed but he’s also very conscious of the tavern’s ground floor directly above them. It will be good to not draw too much unwanted attention to themselves; even more so when nobody can truly be sure of how they would react upon finding a Witcher desperately undressing a bard.

Jaskier’s passion affects him much more than it really should, the Witcher realises with a trembling moan into his bard’s sweet mouth.

Jaskier reciprocates the gesture, and the sound, when Geralt tugs on one end of the chemise’s bow, slowly loosening it until it dissolves – much like Geralt’s conscience, truth be told. The longer he realises that he can watch and touch and undress Jaskier, the less in control he feels. And Jaskier, bless his attentive heart, notices it easily.

“Oh, _Geralt_ …” Jaskier arches his back to give his entranced Witcher a bit more of himself to touch, “Go ahead…”

Geralt sighs as heavily as he would do when battling a particularly vicious Fiend. His fingers trace the edges of Jaskier’s cleavage, softly running over the dark curls borne from his chest. Jaskier trembles – because, he, too, is much more affected than he’s ready to admit out loud.

The chemise comes off next, which leaves Jaskier as deliciously half-naked as his Witcher had accused him of being when he first laid eyes on his full outfit. Jaskier chases that molten, golden gaze with his own, eager to watch Geralt’s reaction. He isn’t stripping himself of all cloth to tease his Witcher, but judging from his reaction, he might as well have been.

Geralt’s pupils are blown into perfect roundness, glowing unnaturally in what little moonlight comes in from a high window – well, high from their perspective. If seen from the ground floor, it’s probably right by the floor. But that’s not important. What matters to Jaskier is the ravenous way in which Geralt is looking, no, _staring_ , at his upper body.

Almost like he wants to swallow him whole.

“Undress me more…” Jaskier pleas, even though he knows his Witcher will take it as a gentle order. “Didn’t you want to pull at that little bow at my arse?”

“Remind me at your own risk.” Geralt replies, raising his gaze to meet Jaskier’s. He’s smirking, too, all width and teeth. It gives him a feral confidence that sets Jaskier’s blood aflame.

Jaskier has to take a deep breath before speaking again, too aware of his Witcher’s hungry gaze resting on his own.

“… I still have two more bows for you to undo. Think you could find them both, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt, who thrives against a challenge and loves all physical tasks, merely smirks wider.

Jaskier almost fears he’s awakened some kind of beast, because he might travel by a Witcher’s side, but he doesn’t know it all about their anatomy nor character. Geralt is certainly uncontrolled sometimes, when he’s ecstatic, and just out of a tough fight, a potion’s dose still in his system and bloodied silver in his hands, in his hair. Jaskier loves to see him so untamed, although he understands why people would fear Geralt so. Geralt looks wild, and rough, and untouched by human hands. The same qualities that drive most people away are the same qualities that drove Jaskier to him in the first place – and Jaskier is _proud_ that he can say that and have it be the naked truth.

“I already found one.” His Witcher’s hands tug at his hips until he finds himself kneeling on the improvised bed, right in between Geralt’s thighs. Those roughened hands are cupping his ass, his thumbs barely brushing against the bow at the top. Jaskier blushes even more. “And don’t tell me it’s cheating because I already knew this one is here. You didn’t specify that.”

“Why do you like that one so much…?” Jaskier manages to ask amidst all the lust swirling in his belly, in his head.

_Gods_ , if he doesn’t get laid tonight, his Witcher is going to tease him relentlessly come morning – Jaskier already knows that he won’t be able to stay quiet. Not when he’s _this_ fired up. He can already feel his cock straining against the front of his trousers, which are decidedly too tight when fully laced. Geralt really needs to step his game up, Jaskier decides with a full-bodied pout.

“… do you want the tease or the truth?”

The sheer fact that his Witcher gave him a choice at all makes curiosity swirl in Jaskier’s head, more pointed than the lust. Unexpected. Even now, his Witcher remains a mystery.

“The truth, please. I’m certain I can tease enough for both of us…”

“That, you can.” Geralt kisses his mouth again, sweet and slow and so unlike the rush of adrenaline thrumming in both their bodies. “Truth is, it’s like you’re my pres–”

He chokes on a sound. And looks away from Jaskier. Both his hands tremble on Jaskier’s ass, holding him marginally tighter.

“… I won’t judge you.” Jaskier mumbles. “If you don’t want me to know, then do _not_ tell me. Just finish undressing me. _Please_. I have… ummm… matters… to tend to.”

Geralt smirks again, bringing one hand around to brush against Jaskier’s cock. He is _bold_ tonight, Jaskier gasps – _and I love it_.

“I’ve noticed.” His Witcher suddenly pulls the bow at his ass free in a single, fluid motion. Jaskier would’ve interjected something, but Geralt never gives him the chance, “I could help you. If you’d like.”

“ _YES!_ ”

“Keep your volume down, love.”

Before Jaskier can dwell on that new nickname – one that Geralt has undoubtedly copied from Jaskier himself – those rough hands are moving again, undoing what little lace and buttons that remain done. His Witcher’s touch is gentle enough to not bruise him, yet still firm enough to not leave any room for misunderstanding. He clearly wants this just as much as Jaskier himself does.

Geralt leans in to kiss his bard’s neck. At the same time, he lowers his trousers as much as he can – Jaskier is still sitting down, after all. There’s some light manoeuvring to be done before Geralt can take them fully off Jaskier’s long legs, but they manage. His Witcher hums a low note as puts the trousers down with the doublet. Then, he moves back towards Jaskier, admiring the view with that lingering, molten gaze of his.

“Handsome.” Geralt declares as he bodily hauls his lithe bard until he’s sitting as comfortably as possible on this unyielding “bed”. Jaskier huffs and puffs and blushes like a first-timer, but lets him do. He knows he couldn’t compete against a Witcher’s strength even if he tried – he also knows that Geralt would heed his words, though. He just doesn’t want to use any of those. “Now I see why people eat off your hand wherever you go.”

An unasked question dies in Jaskier’s throat when Geralt’s hands continue their gentle exploration, running feathery-light over the tent at the front of his trousers. Jaskier opens his mouth to moan, and his Witcher swallows it. Their kiss doesn’t turn rougher with time; instead, it turns even gentler. Jaskier isn’t sure why he lets his Witcher prolong it until his own head is reeling from lack of oxygen, but he does. His moans grow thinner and thinner the longer they kiss.

Until Jaskier’s head disconnects, almost in the brink of pain from not breathing for so long. But then he’s breathing again, taking in huge gulps of air and listening to his Witcher whisper apologies into the ridges of his hipbones. Jaskier smiles, breathless but recovering, when Geralt’s mouth finds the last little bow that has remained uncovered until now.

“ _Found it_.”

Geralt’s growl is all the warning Jaskier gets before he has a Witcher sliding his undergarments off, bow and all, and swallowing his cock whole.

Jaskier _screams_ , arching into his Witcher’s touch and scrambling about to try and give him more of himself to swallow. Geralt takes him into his throat like it’s no big deal, like he’s done this a million times before. Jaskier’s hands fly to that silver hair, desperate to hold on to something while he’s got a warm, soft tongue swirling around his girth. His Witcher hums around him then; it sends deliciously wicked vibrations all over Jaskier’s sensitive flesh.

“Geralt…” He whines, or maybe mewls. He doesn’t know who is more gone into a deep, pleasurable abyss – himself, or his Witcher. When Geralt looks up at him, his eyes are more black than gold. His hunger is evident. “Geralt, if you do that, I’m… I’m going t-to…”

Geralt moves up his length slowly, almost teasingly so. He tantalizes his bard even more by giving him a little sneak-peak at his tongue lapping some droplets off the slit at the top. Jaskier moans at the sight. His mouth hangs open after the sound dissolves; it trembled just as much as Jaskier himself did.

“Good.” Geralt says. His voice is even rougher than usual. Jaskier’s hips suddenly snap forward at the mere sound of that. “Better down my throat than anybody else’s.”

Jaskier would love for his brain to dwell on that as acutely as his heart does, but his Witcher is truly giving him no quarter. He cannot even take a proper breath in before Geralt swallows him again, rough and fast. Jaskier moans. Geralt suckles on his cock like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Jaskier’s hips rock back and forth. His eyes fall closed. He moans more and more. Louder. His voice trembles more.

When molten lava coalesces in his belly, Jaskier can’t even warn Geralt about it.

Jaskier doesn’t know if he screamed very loud or if he fell completely silent; and he doesn’t know if he fell backwards or doubled forward. All that he knows is that, when the blindingly hot pleasure subsides, he’s being cradled in Geralt’s arms. Gently. Softly.

Reverently.

Jaskier tries to speak, tries to apologise for not warning his Witcher that he was about to come down his throat like that – and his voice _cracks_. Embarrassed, Jaskier turns his head away from Geralt’s gaze, pretending that he cannot feel his Witcher’s low laugh reverberating through his chest.

“I take it you enjoyed yourself.” Geralt says. There’s some mirth in his voice, too. Smug bastard… “If I’d known you’d enjoy it so much, I’d offered to undress you every night a very long time ago.”

“… you would do this _every night_?!” Jaskier tries to keep his excitement – his _hope_ – down.

He fails – and miserably so.

“For you, little bard?” Geralt leans down to brush his lips against Jaskier’s hair, not quite kissing him. Nevertheless, Jaskier can tell that the intent is still there. “ _Yes_.”

Jaskier smiles as wide as he physically can. He is much too tired to examine why his Witcher’s words nest so deeply within his heart, though. Besides, he never gets any chance to say anything out loud before Geralt is speaking again.

“Now rest. I’ll stand guard.” Jaskier would ask if he _really_ needs to do that, but a mere brush of his hand between his Witcher’s legs confirms his suspicions. “ _Jaskier…_ ”

“I could take care of that for you.” Jaskier offers, never one to be deterred. “I could bury my face between your legs like you did to me, eat you until you paint me white too.”

For a moment, Jaskier is sure that his Witcher will fall into temptation and agree. As weak as Jaskier thinks himself to be when it comes to Geralt, he also knows that this big, mean Witcher is just as weak for him, too. Even though they both dance around those pesky little emotions, too afraid to give them a name aloud. Their dynamic would change too much if they did. It would separate them. And they don’t want to be apart.

“One day.” Geralt says after a really long pause. Jaskier interprets it as a promise, doesn’t want to know the truth if it _isn’t_ a promise. “Not now, though. You’re exhausted. But one day, you will taste me.”

Jaskier just smiles and kisses his Witcher’s still-clothed chest, right over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask me the difference between a chemise and a shirt, please. That’s not a debate I want to re-open right now. Besides, I honestly don’t know the difference anyway.
> 
> Oh, and plot-bunnies cannot leave me be in my peaceful Witcher hell, so I have yet another idea for a third chapter. Plus more (separate) pieces in the works, too. FML…


	3. The Enjoying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has realised how much Geralt enjoys it when he wears lace, and decides to surprise him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!! This is not so much a “Bum Bow” variant as it is the maximum expression of that concept? I guess? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Not even a week after that one time when Geralt lost all his control and ended up suckling on Jaskier’s cock, they’ve both ended up in Oxenfurt. The city is just as lively as ever, people bustling out in the streets and students shouting to each other from either side of the bridge leading to the Academy. It’s almost sensory overload for Geralt, though he must admit that Novigrad had been even worse in that regard.

But he can handle everything that life throws at him for as long as he has Jaskier’s radiant smile by his side.

“Oh, Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims as he twirls around where he stands in the middle of the road. A few people turn their heads towards him – Geralt can sense their curiosity, taste their interest. Jaskier always attracts attention wherever he goes, which wouldn’t be a bad thing if he didn’t also attract a brooding Witcher to his side. “This feels almost like being back home… Is this how you feel when you winter at Kaer Morhen?”

“I didn’t know you were born here.” Geralt replies calmly, subtly – or so he hopes – diverting attention away from the Wolves’ fortress in the North. That’s not a name that can be thrown around so carelessly; not when most people are still weary of Witchers.

“Oh, I was not!” Jaskier makes a wide gesture, beckons Geralt closer, and doesn’t say anything else until they’re both walking side by side once again. “I just studied here. Threw away some very good years of my young life at that Academy…” He points to the tall building, barely visible from behind the shorter inn right in front of them. “I wonder if Tilly made it as a writer…”

Geralt has no idea who this “Tilly” is; he can only guess they’re one of Jaskier’s old classmates. He lets his bard ramble on and on about any and everything, falls into step at his right just because it’d be easier to unsheathe either of his swords that way, if need be. He doesn’t want to nick Jaskier by accident.

Jaskier leads him through narrow streets, past the port. Rabid seagulls swirl around a certain barrel, which is undoubtedly filled to the brim with fish. Geralt revels in the tiny snicker that leaves Jaskier the moment he sees how mariners and stevedores alike try to drive the gulls away. They fail, of course – but they do provide free entertainment to some passing kids.

“Charming.” Geralt mumbles when they round the corner. His comment is meant more as a way to get Jaskier talking again – because, if there is something that Geralt has learnt in the past few days, is that he adores Jaskier’s voice much more than he initially thought. “Where are you leading us to, little lark?”

Jaskier chokes on air at the nickname; Geralt only catches it due to his heightened senses. Before he can decide whether the reaction has been appositive or a negative one, his bard speaks up, his tone strangely contained.

“… There’s a person in town who owed me a favour, and I’ve redeemed it. I’m taking us to our lodgings for the next week.”

“A _week_?!”

“Well, you _did_ pick up four or five contracts all at once from that notice board…”

“And do you really think they’ll take me a full week to complete?”

“I don’t know. I’d just rather be covered. Besides, it will be nice to have our own place for once, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt is suddenly glad that Jaskier does not possess a Witcher’s heightened senses – if he did, he would’ve noticed how Geralt’s breath had hitched at that question. At the implications within it. At the hooded look that Jaskier gives him.

“… what have you planned?” Geralt asks, keeping his tone low and teasing. His hand brushes against Jaskier’s lovely bottom for a fleeting second – enough to let his bard know he was touched, but not enough to have strangers staring at them.

“… you’ll see.”

Geralt cocks his head to one side, already intrigued. He hopes this little lark won’t make him wait for too long.

“Oh, here we are!” Jaskier takes an iron key from the depth of his trousers’ pocket (thankfully, this pair doesn’t have a bow at the back; otherwise Geralt would’ve been even _more_ scatter-brained).

Jaskier opens the door and steps inside first, not even bothering to look over his shoulder at Geralt. The Witcher, far from being deterred, simply shakes his head before following suit. He also makes sure to close the door behind him, taking a secret delight in being able to lock it.

“Welcome home, _honey_.”

It takes all of the Witcher’s self-control to not pounce on his bard.

Jaskier stares at him, smirking like he can tell Geralt has been rendered speechless for the time being. The moment stretches around them, coating them in a thick, heady air that’s tainted with desire – _Geralt’s_ desire, Witcher senses realise with mild surprise. He’s never been this quick to arouse. He knows only Jaskier can get him to neediness so easily.

And, most surprising of all, he _likes it_.

“I might have something prepared for you.” Jaskier starts – then he pulls up a hand before Geralt can interject, “But you must wait in the other room while I ready myself.”

Geralt observes him for a long moment. There’s a certain, mischievous twinkle in his bard’s blue eyes. Something that reminds Geralt of the look Jaskier had sported when he’d basically _growled_ at Geralt to not stop undressing him. That intensity had been so, _so_ arousing to the Witcher back then – and it continues to be just as arousing now.

His choice is made in an instant.

“Where do I have to wait?”

Jaskier’s smirk is a slow, mellow thing – just like molasses. It overtakes his face so slowly, yet so steadily. It disarms the Witcher who hadn’t even realised that he’d been armed until then.

“Come with me.”

Geralt obeys, lets Jaskier lead him to a secondary room that the constructors have managed to squeeze in between the kitchen and the lavatory. Geralt notices when Jaskier slips out the door again, silent except for the rustle of his bag against the doublet – he did lace it all the way up this morning, too. It’s almost out of character, and so atypical… It sets Geralt’s blood aflame, sends his mind down a spiral of _what ifs_ and impossible mental images about what exactly Jaskier has planned.

Geralt groans in the privacy of this little room. He needs to occupy his mind with something, _anything_ , not related to Jaskier. If he keeps thinking about that bard, he’ll fall apart at the seams even before he can sample anything else than his heady scent – so full of lust – and the ruckus he’s doing in the main bedroom. Geralt tries to tune it out, even though he knows it’s futile. He’s much too accustomed to his bard coming and going around.

A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he sets both his swords aside, propped up against the nearest wall. The silver comes up higher than the steel, though only because it has a longer handle. Geralt has more than enough experience to know that having an edge over monsters is preferable than an edge over humans. Especially because Axii is quite an effective resource towards humans, but loses effectiveness out of combat when used on monsters.

Never mind that some humans are more monstrous than most creatures he’s hired to eliminate.

Jaskier curses softly from the other room. Geralt smiles – his bard sounds just like he does when he’s rushing to get properly dressed before a performance. Which brings a new image to Geralt’s mind.

An image of Jaskier, half-dressed, hair tussled until it sticks up in all directions, hands flying all over his own body.

“What are you even doing, Jaskier…” Geralt calls out as he takes off the outmost layer of his armour. Strangely, the leather and metal feel much heavier in his hands than they do on his body.

“Getting ready!” Jaskier responds. His voice is muffled, probably because he half-closed the bedroom’s door on pure instinct – almost like he expected to have a needy Witcher prowling just outside his door. “Why? Are you bored already? Tired of waiting, perhaps? Didn’t all those Witcher trials teach you patience, dear heart?”

Geralt decides it’s better to speak up unthinkingly than let his heart soar from that pet-name.

“The Trials did more than just teach me things. Why do you think I look like _this?_ ”

“Like this, how?” To his credit, Jaskier sounds genuinely confused. Geralt cannot stop the wave of _relief_ that washes over him at that confusion – it shows that his bard has no problem at all with the equipment Geralt has.

“If you’d seen me before the Trials, you would’ve taken me for a lady.” Saying that out loud feels like swallowing razors, but Geralt forces himself to deal with it. If this bard really meant his words that one time he said he would suck Geralt off, he needs to know this. Better like this than while having sex. “Now, though, I don’t think you would.”

“Until and unless you tell me anything else, you’re a man to me.” Jaskier replies, his voice coming out less strained now. Geralt guesses he’s done dressing – if that’s what Jaskier was doing.

“True.” Geralt rumbles. Then he realises he didn’t clarify anything much, and quickly adds, “I _am_.”

“Good!” Jaskier is moving around the room, his Witcher senses tell him, “Because I’m ready now. Whichever you have, I can work with. You know how vast my expertise is… But enough about me. Come over here!”

Geralt should probably feel bothered by how Jaskier is ordering him around – and even more so by how easily, how readily, he _obeys_. Strangely, though, he doesn’t. Not at all.

Perhaps it’s just the lust speaking. And perhaps that explains why Geralt doesn’t even bother to knock on the main bedroom’s door before pushing it opened one-handed. It yields instantly, letting him see inside.

There’s a desk and chair on one side, close to the only window. The curtains are fully closed, which is a good thing if they’re really going to do this – because Jaskier may not mind much for privacy, but Geralt definitely does. Not that he can really focus on that, though; his full attention is quickly captured by the opposite side of the room.

There is a double bed there, headboard against the wall – and the thin paint over its bricks is dented; a tell-tale proof of how much movement the bed has seen. Jaskier is sitting on it, one leg on the mattress and the other down so his high-heled shoe rests on the wooden floor. It’s blue, with a thin strap surrounding the ankle to keep it firmly laced, and it has a tiny bow obscuring the sight of the clasp.

Golden eyes fixate on the almost transparent tights that cover those long legs up to the mid-thighs. They’re as blue as the shoes, although a few shades lighter. There is a thin embroidery marking the upper edges, sewn in a blue almost as deep as the heels.

It’s not just the heels and stockings, either – the garters are there too. Their clasp is hidden by yet another tiny bow, tied up with such a delicacy that Geralt just _knows_ this is the reason why Jaskier sounded so strained earlier. He most likely laced, unlaced, and re-laced them a million times over, wanting to get them tied into perfection.

Geralt is painfully aware of how rounded his pupils are getting as he gawks at his bard. Hungry eyes follow the garters up to their matching belt, which marks the soft curve of Jaskier’s waist quite nicely. Both lateral edges of the belt are covered by a soft-looking, thin fabric that dangles from Jaskier’s shoulders – as unlaced as his usual doublets, since this piece doesn’t have any buttons. It only has a loose, deep blue bow at the centre of his bard’s chest; from there, it’s free to swirl around his torso with every little motion Jaskier does. Geralt isn’t sure of how this loose fabric is called, though he vaguely recalls some sorceress or another name-dropping something called a “negligée”.

The whole outfit looks absolutely delicious on Jaskier. Then again, Geralt loves basically _everything_ that Jaskier might wear, just because it’s him wearing it. He’s just a bit lost on how he should react; social situations are not his forte, and he was not expecting this at all.

What he _does_ know, however, is that he doesn’t like how the outfit forces Jaskier to keep his back ramrod straight. No, Geralt doesn’t like that _at all_. His bard should be free to move and pose exactly like he wants to. He shouldn’t be restricted by anything.

Or better yet – he shouldn’t be restricted by anything that isn’t Geralt’s own body.

“… do you like it or not?” Jaskier mumbles. His scent lets Geralt know about his reluctance much easier than his words do. His bard is, after all, excellent with words. “… you’re kind of… just staring at me…”

“I _do_ like it.” Geralt moves on sheer instinct, kneeling down by the bed, right in front of Jaskier. When he tilts his head back to look at his bard in the eye, Jaskier flushes light pink. “I just… why?”

Geralt knows that such a question can be misinterpreted quite easily, so he pairs it with looking directly into Jaskier’s eyes. The scant clothing complements their baby-blue quite nicely, making him appear alluring and just a little mischievous.

“I remember you saying I look, and I quote, “damn great in lace”.” Jaskier shrugs one shoulder; the negligée (Geralt has settled on that word for lack of a better one) rides up a little, swirling around his waist and uncovering a bit more of skin. Geralt’s mouth goes dry very quickly. “Were you lying, my dear Witcher?”

“Not at all.” It’s hard to keep the growl away from his voice, and he isn’t sure if he succeeds completely. Either way, it forces a new wave of heady lust out of his bard’s body. Geralt follows that scent down, to Jaskier’s crotch – he doesn’t even know how the hell he missed this important part of his anatomy the first time he looked at his bard.

 _Everything_ is so out in the open that Geralt _growls_ again, low and unrestrained. There’s a thin stripe of clothe crossing vertically over his crotch – a stripe, because calling this an “undergarment” would be far too generous. Geralt isn’t even sure they count as panties; they barely cover the dark curls at the base of that gorgeous cock, never mind the actual shaft. It curls upwards, still constricted slightly, straining against the fabric and tainting it with thin trails of translucid white. Geralt licks at his lips, silently appreciating how Jaskier’s balls are forced to hang at either side of that thin stripe – it’s much _too_ thin to catch them.

“Is this why you kept looking at your pack that one time I sucked you off?” Geralt asks, not even bothering to keep his words even remotely less crude than they form in his mind. Jaskier’s blush intensifies.

“Y-yes…” His voice breaks adorably as he confesses, “But not all. I picked _these_ up…” He runs a single fingertip across the “panties”, “after we arrived here, in Oxenfurt. I figured they would tie the whole outfit together, don’t you think?”

“You know I don’t understand fashion.” Geralt mumbles, leaning in to press a kiss to Jaskier’s right knee – the one he has on the floor. The Witcher makes sure to maintain eye-contact all the while, too. “I just wonder if you want to be touched or to touch me.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, his abdomen quivering. Geralt stares at his face, silently admiring how the baby-blue of his eyes gets taken over by black. Jaskier rolls the question around in his head, almost like he’d been expecting to get roughly thrown onto the bed and ravaged as soon as Geralt saw him dressed like this.

His Witcher presses another open-mouthed kiss to his knee, and Jaskier knows. He can _feel_ it.

“… do as you want with me. You’ve restrained yourself aplenty already.”

His Witcher exhales in surprise, searches his face. He looks like he’s expecting to have that offer taken back any second now. Jaskier holds his gaze steady, even though everything is starting to blur – good _Gods_ , is he turned on right now.

“Take the lead next time.”

Jaskier downright _moans_ when Geralt pounces on him, laying him down onto the bed with a practised finesse that speaks of his experience in the bedroom. Jaskier huffs a breathless laugh, smiling, trying to bring his hands up to hold his Witcher by the hair as his neck gets branded with a searing kiss. Geralt catches him by the wrists, somehow not falling on top of Jaskier – damned Witcher strength, Jaskier supposes – and denies himself the pleasure of being touched. Jaskier whines softly, turns his head to one side to give his Witcher more of his neck to bite into.

“If I’d known how you would react – _ooh_ – I would’ve dressed up much sooner…”

“ _Do it again_.” His Witcher growls, right into his ear, as he grabs at Jaskier’s thigh with one greedy hand. Jaskier isn’t sure which part he’s supposed to do again; the dressing up, the moulding himself to his Witcher’s warm body, talking in full sentences… “ _Sing._ ”

“You like my voice that much…?” Jaskier teases, although the effect is broken by a new moan as his Witcher spreads his thighs to properly get in between them. His shirt is so opened at the collar that Jaskier feels that medallion against his own chest – sharp-edged yet slightly warmed up by Geralt’s body. “ _Oohhh_ … must you wear that…?”

“Did it cut you?” Geralt instantly puts some distance between himself and Jaskier, holding his medallion away from his bard. There’s concern in his features – Jaskier stares at him, dumbfounded.

Wouldn’t those Witcher senses of his detect the metallic scent of blood, had the medallion cut into Jaskier’s skin…?

“No, not at all.” Jaskier brings up a hand, using the newfound freedom granted by Geralt letting go of his wrist. Jaskier can barely see the wolf’s eyes in between those rough, calloused fingers. “I just wonder if you ever take that thing off. You wear it even as you bathe…”

“I feel naked without it.” Geralt’s honesty burrows itself deep in Jaskier’s heart – because his Witcher trusts him enough to tell him about this after being questioned only once. It’s even more special when Jaskier reminds himself of just how guarded Geralt is with everybody else. “I can slide it into my clothes if it bothers you.”

“Don’t.” Jaskier feels like he’s begging, although he knows his Witcher is feeling much more desperate than Jaskier himself is. “I’m okay… You just need to do something more to me, dear heart, lest I grow bored…”

Geralt’s stare burns him to the core even before he realises that his wicked Witcher is accompanying it with a feral smirk.

When he moves, Jaskier is sure that he’s been waiting for permission for a while now. It speaks highly of Geralt, and Jaskier can appreciate the care with which he’s being handled – probably because past lovers were not always _this_ careful with his body. Jaskier might look lithe when dressed, but there’s no denying the breadth of his shoulders or the toned muscles of his arms when he’s mostly unclothed, like he is now. Hell, Jaskier feels more naked than if he were not wearing any clothes – this attire truly is too revealing to be worn anywhere but in the bedroom. Hence why he decided to leave the curtains fully closed.

His Witcher starts relatively tame, although he must surely be desperate for some action. Jaskier sighs out in bliss as Geralt directs his attention back to his neck, though on the opposite side this time. Jaskier moans, low and drawn-out, when Geralt nuzzles into him until his skin is all but burning from his beard – not unpleasantly so, but enough to give Jaskier a taste of what it would feel against his inner thighs. Last time Jaskier had his Witcher between his legs, he couldn’t really indulge in any specific sensation before he’d come down his throat. If they take their time tonight, Jaskier could have a taste of the absolute delirium that must overtake whoever holds a Witcher’s full attention.

Jaskier trembles when one rough hand travels down his side, chastely over the thin negligée. When Geralt reaches his waist, however, he suddenly smirks against Jaskier’s reddened skin – and just flicks the negligée away to uncover more of his bard. Jaskier can only swallow, anticipation swirling quick and heady in his gut, as Geralt’s mouth travels from his neck to his collarbone. A moan escapes from in between Jaskier’s parted lips as Geralt bites him softly through the thin cloth. Before his brain is able to catch up to what his Witcher is doing at his waist, Geralt raises above him.

He looks almost like a deity, Jaskier’s mind supplies – tantalizing and handsome beyond what mere words can express; which truly is saying something when coming from Jaskier, who employs words as easily as Geralt does his sword. Jaskier moans again. He cannot help but latch onto the unnatural, alluring, gleam of Geralt’s eyes. It’s darker than honey, reminiscent maybe of fossilized amber. Probably just as ancient, too; although his Witcher would deny that. He would probably deny his own beauty as well. He’s humble, more due to a lack of self-confidence than anything else.

When Geralt moves to take his own shirt off, the light catches in the longest locks of his hair, setting that beautiful silver aflame. Jaskier sighs, or maybe moans, at the sight; he’s utterly captured by his dear Witcher already. He has always been. Now he only needs Geralt to know.

“Can I… ask for something?” Jaskier starts, soft despite the unbridled lust pushing his voice around a semitone lower.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t you?” Geralt rebukes while throwing his shirt aside. Jaskier doesn’t even bother to follow it with his eyes to see where it lands; he knows that Geralt must have calculated that already.

“… because you’re leading?” Jaskier smiles, unsure – he’s already extending both hands out towards his Witcher, though. “It’s simple, I promise… Just… take that ribbon out of your hair?”

Geralt stares at him for a moment, his eyes going wide for a second. Jaskier is sure that, if those viperous pupils hadn’t been already blown into perfect roundness, they’d have been blown just now. Geralt scrambles to take the black ribbon out, growling when he tugs on his own hair like a damn _idiot_. He’s so overexcited, Jaskier realises with a tiny sigh – so eager to have his bard like this.

“Don’t hurt yourself…” Jaskier whispers. His Witcher throws the ribbon aside (it somehow joins his shirt on the floor by the bed), and crawls right back on top of Jaskier. “Good boy…”

Geralt trembles, _moans_ , presses himself flush against Jaskier.

 _Oh_ , Jaskier realises, _he loves that_.

So he does it again, curling a hand into his Witcher’s silver hair, revelling in how soft it is, even though it’s been a while since the last time it was properly brushed. Jaskier makes a mental note, because he’s guilty of wanting to pamper his Witcher as much as it is humanly possible for him, and turns his head to one side.

“Enjoy…” Jaskier mutters, knowing Witcher senses will hear him just fine. He’d let his voice waver like it does when he sings a note accented by vibrato, but he’s much too out of breath for that. Geralt will have to infer that playfulness from Jaskier’s general demeanour.

“Oh, I _will_.” Geralt replies – or rather, _growls_.

His hand finds Jaskier’s waist again; and two of his fingertips hook slightly under the garter belt. Jaskier whines. His Witcher smirks against his neck, trails his hand over the belt, down one garter. Jaskier’s thighs tremble more and more the lower Geralt reaches on his body – and when his Witcher leans a hand on his inner thigh to spread his legs, he can only obey. Geralt kisses his neck, buries his face against Jaskier’s skin like his scent is really _that_ intoxicating to him. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, to tease his dear heart.

Geralt kisses him before he can get even half a syllable out.

Jaskier moans into his mouth, closes his eyes and opens up for his Witcher, letting him lead this dance of tongues and lips. Geralt is gentle even when he feels so desperate, so shaken by lust. Jaskier tries to bite at his Witcher’s lower lip and fails – though only because Geralt is quicker. It leaves Jaskier moaning again, trembling, one leg rising from the mattress to lean on Geralt’s body.

“You look desperate, songbird…” Geralt kisses his jawline. Jaskier can feel that wicked smirk against his own skin. “All hard and dressed up for me…”

Jaskier gulps. His hips rock up sharply, prompted by Geralt’s low tone and teasing words. His Witcher chuckles, as out of character as that might seem sometimes, and takes pity on him by leaning down to mouth at Jaskier’s collarbone. Immediately, he causes his bard to arch his back into his Witcher’s warm touch. Geralt chuckles once more, smirking against the thin layer of the negligée.

“I get to unwrap you, then…?” His Witcher purrs into Jaskier’s ear. He can only nod his head quite frantically; Geralt takes it as enthusiastic consent. “ _Good_.”

That single word was preferable to saying the _thank you_ that had been on his mind.

Jaskier lets go of a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding in when Geralt tugs on the loose lace tying the negligée together. It instantly parts, giving him a full view of Jaskier’s chest. Geralt downright _purrs_ as he sits up just enough to set the cloth aside from Jaskier’s torso – but he doesn’t slide it down his bard’s arms. Jaskier observes him curiously, intrigued by how his Witcher isn’t just ripping all cloth away from his body.

“… better like this…” Geralt whispers, sounding like he’s speaking to himself.

“AH!”

Jaskier thrashes about, trying to simultaneously get more and less sensation on his nipple – Geralt’s mouth feels incredible, yes, but it’s also almost too much. Jaskier’s hand flies to his Witcher’s hair again. He tugs on the longest locks harder than he intended to, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind. All he does is growl his pleasure and give Jaskier’s rosy nipple another sharp kiss. It’s more teeth than suction – and yet it has Jaskier moaning loudly anyway.

“ _Geralt_ …” Jaskier whines, his hips rocking up only to find none of his Witcher’s toned body in their path.

“Don’t be greedy.” His Witcher replies, sounding more amused than chiding. He moves down Jaskier’s body, not even tilting to the side when he brings one hand up to be able to pinch Jaskier’s other nipple. His bard jumps, bites back a moan, “That’s it… sing for me.”

Jaskier has never been so sure that his Witcher absolutely _loves_ his voice as he is right now.

Geralt’s mouth travels downwards fairly quickly, his beard sometimes catching in the soft hairs covering Jaskier’s chest. It makes his bard mewl softly, squirm in place like he’s getting beard-burn on the inner thighs. The thought is insidious and heady in Geralt’s brain. It sends a certain thrill down his spine.

Geralt lingers over Jaskier’s abdomen, sampling the taste of his skin, covering him in tiny little kisses that make Jaskier’s heartbeat accelerate. The bard throws his head back onto the mattress – he knows that his Witcher will be able to pick up on every reaction, no matter how much he may try to hide them. There’s no point in even _trying_ to hide them. Besides, Geralt deserves to know exactly how much Jaskier wants him; his self-deprecation sometimes hits him – hits them both – too strongly, and this is a nice way of reminding him that he _is_ wanted and loved.

Perhaps a little unorthodox, as far as platonic relationships go – but Jaskier has always known that his not-so-secret affection for his Witcher is not platonic at all, so it’s okay.

Geralt’s mouth reaches the garter belt. Jaskier holds his breath in, although that does nothing to hide how his stomach is quivering from anticipation and excitement. His Witcher seems to ponder over something for a moment – then he raises his head to catch Jaskier’s gaze.

“Does it force your posture?” He asks, tracing one finger over the smooth material.

“H-huh…?” Jaskier’s mind needs a second to catch up with his body, “O-oh! Not really, no…”

Geralt’s answer to that is to leave the belt as tightly tied as it is.

Jaskier huffs and puffs as he writhes on the bed. The undergarment’s thin stripe is digging into _very_ sensitive skin; and him rocking his hips up and down so much is making the burn worse. Jaskier knows he won’t ask for it to be taken off, though – he brought this upon himself, both by dressing up and by letting his Witcher have full command. His fate is in Geralt’s strong, capable hands now.

“Damnit, Jaskier…”

Jaskier can’t protest with words before his whole lower half is being lifted off the bed. His legs end up in the air as Geralt unceremoniously shoves the scant panties, if they can even be called that, fully off his legs. Jaskier is suddenly grateful that he put on the garter and the belt _before_ he put those panties on; otherwise his Witcher’s action wouldn’t have undressed him so nicely.

Geralt lowers his legs again, first the left and then the right, keeps himself slotted in between Jaskier’s thighs. Up close like this, it’s quite easy to see that his bard has more strength in him than most people are ready to admit. Geralt caresses him gently, right over the edge of those thigh-highs. The skin directly underneath it is already slightly reddened. Geralt does _not_ like that. It makes him think that it’s hurting Jaskier. He dips his head to kiss his bard there – half the kiss ends up on Jaskier’s skin; the other half, on the fabric.

Jaskier emits a trembling sigh when he feels Geralt kiss him like this, first on one thigh and then on the other. He doesn’t dare look down at his Witcher right now, though; Geralt’s mouth is too close to his crotch. Jaskier knows himself well enough to know that, if Geralt presses him just slightly, he’ll end up orgasming embarrassingly quickly. _Again_. Just like last time Geralt swallowed him whole.

His Witcher holds him by the hips, canting them at an angle to expose more of his skin, of his elation, to those hungry, golden eyes. Jaskier lets out an entirely undignified sound when he realises exactly what Geralt is aiming at.

“Yes or no?” Geralt asks against his hip. His breath caresses the base of Jaskier’s cock, warm and enticing. Jaskier bites his lip, unable to stop a pearly droplet from rolling down his shaft.

“Y-yes…” He whines after a single second. He knows his Witcher will be gentle with him; and he _did_ say Geralt could do as he pleased. It’s really sweet of him to confirm his every step – as much as Jaskier tells himself that such care isn’t really necessary with someone as experienced as he is. “Gods, Geralt, _yesss_ …”

His Witcher smirks, flashing just a hint of sharp fangs, and captures the head of Jaskier’s cock in his warm mouth.

Jaskier downright _screams_ , pleasure thrumming in his veins so intensely that he’s sure he’s going to come any second now, even though Geralt is probably just starting. He knows he cannot compete with a Witcher’s stamina, but the thought that he’ll be allowed to try very soon has him mewling again. Jaskier bends both knees to be able to cage his Witcher more fully in between his thighs. Geralt doesn’t protest; he just moves a hand up to his mouth, licks at his own fingers almost as often as he licks at Jaskier’s crown.

Another moan escapes Jaskier when he feels Geralt rubbing behind his balls, so gently that he almost seems afraid of what he’s about to do. Jaskier smiles wide and sweet, affected by his Witcher in more ways than just physically.

“If you’re unsure, let me do it on you first…” Jaskier offers. His voice wavers up and down, fluctuating between his neutral register and the notes immediately above it. He knows that Geralt will most likely _not_ take him up on that offer, because his Witcher has a history of avoiding being touched. But it still seemed important that he at least give him that option, so he did.

“… if you wouldn’t mind.” Geralt mumbles, refusing to meet Jaskier’s gaze.

The bard’s heart almost breaks into a million pieces – Geralt sounds and looks so unsure, so out of his element. It’s clear that he’s used to pleasuring all his partners without being pleasured in turn. It’s probably just his own preference, but Jaskier’s mind cannot help but to focus on how Geralt doesn’t have what most people would expect him to have.

Before Jaskier allows his heart to fully break at the negative implications of that, he moves up and cradles his Witcher’s head in his hands.

“Not only I wouldn’t mind, I would love to do so.” Jaskier tells his thunderstruck Witcher. He accompanies his words with a tiny smile, not enough to be misinterpreted as mockery, but present enough that it feels real and sincere. “If you want me to.”

Geralt moves lightning-quick to capture Jaskier’s mouth again. One of his hands finds Jaskier’s cock and caresses it, though that’s just an afterthought to their kissing. His bard _melts_ in his arms anyway. When they come apart, it’s hard to say who’s more ruined; Jaskier is blushing and panting, yes, but Geralt’s lips are kiss-bitten and his pupils are so blown that there’s only a thin ring of gold at the outer edges.

“Jerk off while you taste me.” Geralt whispers against his lips. The bard’s thighs tremble wildly at the filthy, filthy words. “Come whenever you want.”

“I thought you’d be the type to tell me to hold it…” Jaskier laces his arms around his Witcher’s shoulders, smiles as teasingly as he can manage right now.

“Not tonight.”

There’s a promise in those words somewhere, Jaskier tells himself. He lets himself be moved, helps Geralt disrobe and follows him towards the headboard. His Witcher leans his back against it and spreads his legs wide without any second thoughts, letting Jaskier fall right in between them.

Jaskier’s cock jumps at the mere sight of his Witcher’s arousal. He moans.

And he also needs a moment to remind himself that, no, this is _not_ about him right now. All attention has shifted towards his Witcher. While Jaskier knows he can touch himself, he also knows he’ll end up too enraptured by Geralt than to even remember his own needs.

Jaskier starts slow, conscious that this is probably still a relatively new sensation for his dear Witcher. The little kiss he places on his hardened cock makes Geralt suck in a breath – which confirms Jaskier’s suspicions. Jaskier leans both his hands on Geralt’s inner thighs to keep him spread. His Witcher could very easily force him away if he so desired; Jaskier has to trust he won’t be suddenly shoved off. He focuses his will, and his kisses, right on Geralt’s cock.

It feels silky-soft against his lips, and it startles under his tongue much more easily than Jaskier had expected. It’s almost strange to think of Geralt as sensitive, even though he’s demonstrated time and time again that his heart is as gentle as the rolls of his hips onto Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier keeps it up, kissing him more than he licks, and licking more than he sucks. Geralt seems afraid to hold onto him, although Jaskier can _feel_ his gaze on him. Jaskier allows himself to close his eyes and really get into it, not bothering to contain his moans when his Witcher’s taste floods into his mouth.

“… _more_ …” Geralt downright moans from above. Jaskier lets him slide out of his opened mouth – and then he goes in again, sucking Geralt’s cock into his mouth until he can suckle as much as he wishes. “… _Jaskier–!_ ”

Jaskier feels himself drool from both his mouth and his cock at how Geralt failed to bite back that moan. He sounds so utterly wrecked already – and Jaskier is just starting. For all his past bragging about his prowess in bed, Jaskier can only hope it holds up now. He doesn’t want to disappoint his Witcher, doesn’t want to leave him halfway done just because Jaskier took less time to come.

With that thought in mind, Jaskier ignores his own cock – even though it feels heavy, even though it aches for being touched again – and suckles just a little bit harder. Geralt huffs again, not quite moaning but quickly getting there. Jaskier swirls his tongue around his cock, moves one hand closer to Geralt’s entrance. He isn’t sure if his Witcher will let him do this first try, so he lingers at the outer folds, offering without demanding. If Geralt wants it, he’ll let Jaskier know. He’s quite vocal lately – and not just when in bed.

Geralt rolls his hips upwards, dragging himself on Jaskier’s tongue. He moans all the way, too – and nods his head when Jaskier catches his gaze.

Jaskier gives him a blinding smile, though the effect is diminished, or maybe even _aided_ , by how his whole mouth and chin are glistening. Geralt _blushes_ , looks away. His bard chuckles, low and enticing. It’s clear that he’s enjoying seeing his Witcher like this, so uncoordinated and needy.

When Jaskier captures his cock again, Geralt groans. His hips snap upwards again. He’s just so _sensitive_ , Jaskier realises with a delighted moan – he’s enjoying himself a lot right now. Good. Jaskier swirls his tongue again, gently opens him up to press one finger into him. One becomes two almost immediately, though; Geralt is already aroused enough for that. They moan at the same time – Jaskier from how warm and soft his Witcher feels around him; Geralt, from how delectable it feels to be touched by his bard’s so intimately.

“ _Geralt_ …” Jaskier moans against his hip a second before the welcomed onslaught on his cock resumes.

“ _More_.” Geralt practically demands. Jaskier is happy to obey, although it doesn’t even feel like his Witcher is ordering him. If anything, those stuttering breaths and those incoherent words are the opposite of an order. “ _Jaskier_ …”

The bard merely hums around his cock, suckling on it not unlike how Geralt had done to Jaskier that one time. Jaskier uses a firmer pressure, though; he’s not at all shy to let his Witcher know just how much he’s enjoying this – because being able to touch him is a dream come true for Jaskier. He’s wanted to get his hands on this gorgeous Witcher for _years_ ; and now that he’s got the chance to do so, he isn’t about to stop any time soon.

Geralt’s hips snap upwards again, sliding hot and hard against Jaskier’s tongue. The bard can easily tell that his Witcher is biting his lips to try and conceal his sounds – and that won’t do, oh _no_ , it won’t do at all.

“Don’t…” Jaskier whines. Ideally, he’d keep his voice steadier than this trembling note – alas, he’s much too excited for that. “Let me hear you too, let me know how much you’re enjoying yourself…”

His Witcher moans, though whether he did so prompted by Jaskier’s words or his actions is unclear. Either way, the bard isn’t going to complain – anything that gets Geralt to enjoy himself for a while is absolutely amazing in Jaskier’s books. That’s probably the only reason why he withstands getting dragged along to every single round of Gwent his Witcher plays…

Geralt holds him by the hair when he curls his fingers just so inside him, hitting a sweet spot that he already knew was there. Jaskier kisses his cock at the same time, eager to earn more intermittent sounds, more desperate rocking. His Witcher is making a great effort to not fuck himself on Jaskier’s mouth with reckless abandon – probably because Jaskier doesn’t have the same sturdiness that Witchers possess – even though it’s obvious that he won’t break.

Jaskier might cause Geralt’s metaphorical walls to break down, but nothing more. Above all, he just wants his dear Witcher to enjoy himself.

“Like that…?” Jaskier teases as he curls his fingers deep into his Witcher, letting his warm breath caress Geralt’s reddened cock. It jumps further out of its hood. If Geralt wanted to hide his arousal now, it would be impossible. “Should I do that more…? Should I hook into you like this…?”

Geralt _growls_ , already too gone to answer verbally. Jaskier isn’t sure what has he done to have this big, strong Witcher so utterly at his mercy – but _Gods above_ , is he loving every second of it. Geralt’s hand holds his hair quite sweetly, brushing it away from his eyes, while at the same time keeping Jaskier pressed flush against his own crotch. There’s no way his bard could move away from him now – not that Jaskier _would_ , of course. It’s quite the thrill to know he can affect his Witcher like this.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s every reaction as a sign that he should keep on fucking into him at this very same pace. It’s not extremely fast, although it’s not slow enough to be a tease, either. Languid, perhaps – that’s the word Jaskier settles on as he licks tiny circles around Geralt’s cock. It earns him another muffled growl; one that transforms into a moan halfway through, because Jaskier hits the sweetest spot inside at the same time. Sensations must be piling up for his dear Witcher, leaving him trembling and pliant under Jaskier’s every touch.

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s thighs are trembling so much that it’s almost worrying. He sounds like he’s far away, too – and Jaskier knows enough about pleasure to know that his Witcher _is_ far away. He’s so gone, so lost in pleasure. It almost seems that he’s never gotten pleasured so intently, although he’s older and (supposedly) just as experienced as Jaskier is. “Jaskier…”

He hums again, suckling his Witcher’s cock into his mouth, curling three fingers nice and deep into his depth. Geralt’s back aches off the bed – he almost keens – then he settles back down. He still trembles wildly. His grip on Jaskier’s hair is getting stronger.

Jaskier can read the need to come everywhere on his Witcher’s body. He can taste it too; so sweet and thick as it floods his mouth. He’s never been one to truly revel in how others taste beyond noticing how it floods into his mouth when they come, but…

… now that he has his dear Witcher bucking up into his mouth and about to come on his fingers, on his tongue…

Jaskier curls his fingers again, retreating only to the first knuckle before pressing down against his Witcher again. Geralt _moans_ his loudest moan yet, arching off the bed, rocking desperate and wild against him. Jaskier lets him, keeps his tongue wet and soft so that Geralt can slide right against it. His Witcher is contracting so hard around Jaskier’s fingers that he can’t even move them in-and-out anymore – not that he was doing much of that in the first place, though.

It takes Geralt’s brain several moments to come down from what had to be one of the absolute _best_ orgasms of his entire life. When he regains his senses, the first thing he realises is that his grip on Jaskier’s hair has tightened until it’s hard enough to bruise. Geralt instantly lets go of his bard, moaning half-coherent apologies at the same time.

“It’s okay, you’re okay…” Jaskier mumbles, letting himself fall face-first against Geralt’s hip. The sharp jut of his Witcher’s hipbone is right in front of his mouth now, so Jaskier simply kisses it – and revels in how it causes Geralt to shiver. “Good?”

“Better than.” Geralt breathes out. He’s still pliant under Jaskier’s touch, and so very sensitive; even though he’s also not telling him to move away.

“I can tell…” Jaskier doesn’t even try to hide his smile. There’s a warm current in his veins, a low-level pleasure running through his body. It feels almost like a very present afterglow. “Ah, fuck…”

“Did you come?” Geralt asks. His hand goes back to Jaskier’s hair, although this time it’s just to pet him softly. “I don’t remember you tending to yourself…”

“T-that’s because I… didn’t.” Jaskier stutters, huffing right onto Geralt’s skin. His Witcher feels almost room-temperature by now; curse Witchers for being as literally cold-blooded as snakes.

“Didn’t jerk off, maybe.” Geralt replies, not missing a single beat. Jaskier blushes – he instinctively knows his Witcher can tell he came untouched. His whole crotch feels tainted by his own essence, sticky and warm. Jaskier closes his thighs quite forcefully, trying to not give himself away. “I can _taste_ you in the air, little lark.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jaskier pretends to be affronted, even when he’s happy that Geralt has started to give him some nicknames lately. None of them have stuck just yet; but at least it’s _something_. It’s a start. “Use my name, if you must. Or another pet-name.”

Geralt pets his hair in complete silence for some seconds. Jaskier almost starts to worry that he’d said the wrong thing, because he does have a mouth on him and his brain isn’t always up to date with it, and–

“ _Love._ ”

Once again, Jaskier cannot react before his Witcher is hauling him up and rolling them around, so that Jaskier lays trapped between the mattress and Geralt’s warm body. The kiss he gives Jaskier scorches his blood and sets his heart alight, quiets his brain until all Jaskier can do is moan into his mouth. It’s not unusual for him to call Geralt “my love” – and he’s doubled down on that these past days – but for _Geralt_ to use it…

“Say it again.” Jaskier moans against his lips. He doesn’t have enough leverage to refuse Geralt’s next kiss, if he decided he wants another. If it depended on Jaskier, though, he’d let his Witcher simmer in lust until he’d done what Jaskier pleaded him to do.

“ _Love_.” Geralt repeats. The word slides so easily out of his mouth that Jaskier can only stare at him – at the golden rim in his eyes. His pupils are still blown into roundness. Right now, it’s more than obvious that he won’t be satisfied with only one round. “Isn’t that what you always call me? About time you heard it back.”

Jaskier can only kiss him as a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re done!! Thank you for reading; I sincerely hope you enjoyed it! I’ve also updated all the tags now, since I kind of forgot to do that in the last update. Oops…


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